A Plain Love Song (19 page)

Stop stalling.
She smoothed her hair with a trembling, damp hand. The face looking back at her was unfamiliar, framed by her long, curly blonde hair no longer wrapped in a bun and covered with her kapp. She removed her apron. There, she drew the line. The dress was a nice deep blue. It would do. She’d worn Englisch clothes before, when she knew she’d be with Matthew. He never said much, but she saw him watching her, a curious expression on his face when she strode from the shed in jeans and a T-shirt. Like he didn’t recognize her. He seemed to like what he saw, but what he saw wasn’t the Adah he knew. She understood that.

Tonight was different. She would be with Jackson. She didn’t know him, not like she did Matthew. Matthew could be trusted. Besides, she
liked her dresses and they were what a woman should wear. Especially to pass the time with a man like Jackson. Especially in a place like the stock show and rodeo, which would be packed to the brim with Englisch men.

Her hand went to her hair again. Cover it. No. She’d worn it down before and nothing had happened. No bolt of lightning. No deep voice thundering from afar. It was harmless.

So why did it feel different this time? Because Jackson would see. He’d made it clear he already liked what he saw.

His smiling face hovered in her mind’s eye. So did she. Heart hammering, she leaned forward, trying to catch her breath.
Gott, what am I doing?

No answer.

Time to go. Her heart hiccupped. She’d never started out on her own. She’d always been with Matthew. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Matthew served as more than a friend on these forays into the world. He was her buffer and protector. He made her feel safe. Why wasn’t that enough? Why was she doing this to herself? To him? She sighed and picked up the phone from where she’d laid it on a crate that served as furniture in their little hideaway. She could still call this off.

Nee. Not with the joy of hearing live music within her reach. She tucked the phone into a denim bag and smoothed her hair one more time. Outside, she climbed into the buggy parked behind the shed and headed to New Hope, pushing Dusty to a steady clip.

Forty-five minutes later she pulled into the fairgrounds on the edge of town. A steady stream of trucks and cars clogged the entrances at both ends. Not a buggy in sight. No surprise there. Her hands felt slick on the reins. Dusty tossed his head and whinnied, a high, nervous sound. She knew the feeling. “Easy, boy, easy.”

The back parking lot, Jackson had said. The overflow lot. She clucked and snapped the reins. A horn sounded. She jumped and nearly dropped them. Dusty swerved and jerked forward. A rusty red and white pickup truck, its paint faded, zipped past them, its muffler backfiring. Dusty whinnied. “Sorry! Sorry!” She fought to control him. “Easy, boy, come on, we’re almost there.”

She pulled off the main street and maneuvered onto the asphalt road behind a steady stream of pickup trucks of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Englisch farmers loved their trucks. The road looped around toward the exhibit hall and the long, flat tin buildings where animals were housed until they could be shown. Swarms of people walked along the road, men in cowboy hats and women in jeans with fancy rhinestones embroidered to the back pockets and cowboy boots in all colors. They all seemed to be eating something—caramel apples, funnel cakes, fried oreos, ice cream, cotton candy, or sausages on sticks. The smell of barbecue mingled with manure and dirt. The noise of people talking, engines rumbling, and tinny carnival music blaring assailed her. How would she ever find Jackson in this mess? Everyone in the county showed up for the stock show and rodeo in a town where it constituted the social event of the year. Everyone except her Plain neighbors and friends. The thought gouged her like an arrow between her shoulder blades.

A shrill ring made her jump. The phone. Of course, the phone. She wrapped the reins around one hand and rummaged with the other in her bag, still keeping her gaze on the road in front of her. A little boy dressed in blue jeans, a red Western shirt, boots, and a belt sporting a buckle the size of his hand meandered across the road leading a goat as if he didn’t see the horse and buggy. Not like one of those big monster trucks. She jerked on the reins and swerved. The boy lifted his cowboy hat to her, revealing corn silk colored hair. Her hand found the ringing phone. She peered at the screen in the glare of the overhead street lights. Which button would stop the ringing and connect her to Jackson? There. “Hello?”

“You answered.” Jackson’s voice, big as life, in her ear. “I thought maybe you threw it away.”

“Nee. No. I’m here.”

“You came.”

“I did, but I think maybe I made a mistake.”

“No. No. You did good. I promise. Where are you?”

She looked around. “On the road by the exhibit hall.”

“Good. That’s good. You’re doing great. Come on around on the
loop and I’ll meet you at the back parking lot. We can walk over to the arena together.”

To Adah’s relief, Jackson proved to be as good as his word. He leaned against the gate, the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lip. He straightened, tossed the cigarette to the ground, and squashed it under the heel of his boot. “Pull over here,” he called, pointing to a grassy stretch along the fence. “You can tie up your horse here and he can have a little snack while he waits.”

She did as he said. He followed along, giving directions as if she’d never parked a buggy in her life. “Okay, I think I have it.”

“Let me help you down.” He stood, arms outstretched in front of her, looking up. His mouth gaped open. “Wow.”

“What?” She jerked back. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. You look real nice.”

Stunned by the frank appreciation in his eyes, Adah wavered, stuck between what she knew to be proper and how nice his compliment made her feel. Truth be told, he looked good too, even if she tried hard not to notice. She couldn’t help but see that the forest green Western-style shirt with the white embroidery around the pockets and the mother-of-pearl snaps looked good on him, along with the jeans and the one black dress boot that matched his black brace. He’d even shaved recently. No five o’clock shadow. He looked like every cowboy she’d ever imagined when she listened to the country music radio station.

“I won’t bite, I promise.” He waved his fingers in a
come-on-down
gesture. “I promise to be the perfect gentleman. You don’t ever have to worry about that. I promise to bring you right back here the minute you’re ready to go home.”

He hesitated a fraction of a second, looking from her to the buggy and back. “Although I’d feel a whole lot better if I were delivering you back to your house in my truck. I don’t think driving these buggies at night is safe.”

“I’ve been driving at night for a long time.” His words snapped Adah from her heady reverie. She was quite capable of taking care of herself and she had no need of an Englisch ride. “I have headlights.”

“Of course you do.”

She let him take her hand and help her climb down even though she’d been getting out of buggies on her own most of her life. Something about the way he looked at her made her believe every word he said…and even the words he didn’t say.

“This way.” He put his hand on her elbow and guided her toward the gate and into the flow of people moving toward the rodeo arena. “I was late buying the tickets so the seats aren’t great, but you’ll be able to hear fine. Clayton Star’s musicians are really outstanding. He has a good voice too. He’s going places, for sure. He won’t be doing the county rodeo circuit much longer.”

“What will he be doing?” She had to lean close to hear his voice over the chatter of the crowd that pressed against them, carrying them along in a steady flow. “Going where?”

“Nashville, I reckon. That’s the place to get the big break.”

“Is that where you’ll go, after Branson, I mean?”

“Yep. Leastways, I hope so.”

Jackson handed two tickets to a man wearing an orange vest that read
VOLUNTEER
and they squeezed through an entrance packed with people flooding up a series of steps that opened into the arena. She hadn’t thought of the tickets. She should pay him for hers. He shouldn’t have to pay for her. She tried to tell him that, but the screaming of the crowd made it impossible to talk anymore. A cowboy whipped up and down, arm in the air, hat flying to the ground, as he clung to an enormous, irate horse. An announcer yelled words she didn’t really understand. The rider landed on his backside, popped up, and ran, his hat flapping in one hand while two clowns teased the horse in the other direction.

Jackson grabbed her arm and gently propelled her up steep cement steps until he found a row with two seats on the end. “This is it,” he leaned in and said directly in her ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek and smell the Doublemint gum he chewed. A shiver rippled up her neck. He put his hand on her back. “We’ll be able to see everything from here.”

“Where’s the band?” She sat down and craned her neck, trying to see everything at once. She’d never seen such a rowdy, rambunctious
crowd. They were screaming as another cowboy tried his luck with a different horse and had the same results. What exactly did winning look like in bronco riding? “I thought you said this was a concert.”

“They have rodeo events first. The concert’s always last. We missed the mutton busting—you would’ve liked that. And the kids trying to catch the pigs. But they haven’t done the barrel racing yet. Something tells me you’ll like seeing women ride horses fast.” He shoved up his shirt sleeve far enough to reveal a watch on a silver band. “Got the bull riding after that. About an hour and then it’s music city.”

To Adah’s surprise, the time flew by as Jackson explained the event, talking about the riders, the scoring, and who was favored to win and why. She did like the barrel riding, as silly as it seemed. The way the horses flew around the orange barrels without touching them. The way the women controlled the horses, riding low, staying on despite the twisting and turning. She also liked one night of being someone else long enough to enjoy a concert with someone who loved music as much as she did.

Finally, the bull riding. “How do you know who wins?”

“Simple. Whoever manages to stay on the longest.”

A monumental task it seemed. One cowboy flipped off the saddle the second the gates opened on the chute. Another got thrown against the fence and limped away holding his arm after only three seconds.

“Why do they do this?” She had to shout to be heard over the crowd.

“Because it’s an adrenaline rush. Because it’s fun,” Jackson shouted back. “And because that’s how they make a living.”

There had to be easier ways. “You did this?”

He shook his head. “Calf tie-down and team roping. I haven’t done it for a few years, though. I miss it sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I like competing. Makes you feel alive knowing everyone is watching and cheering for you.”

He didn’t feel alive now? She studied his face when he looked back at the competition on the field. He looked plenty alive to her. Smiling, clean shaven for once, eyes dancing. She felt alive at this moment, very alive. Being here felt alive.

Dangerous grounds. She inhaled and fixed her gaze on the competition, determined not to look at him again. The noise died down. The events ended. Some people filed out while others squeezed into the long flat rows of seats. People scurried around down on the field, setting up equipment, bringing in speakers. Soon a set of drums appeared, and then keyboards. Adah watched, fascinated, as the stage began to appear before her eyes,

“Why country music?”

Jackson’s soft question brought her out of a wide-eyed attempt to see everything and tuck it away to turn over in her mind later, absorb, and think about when she was back in her world. Courtesy dictated she look at him, as much as she tried to avoid it. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you like country music so much?”

She switched her gaze to her hands folded primly in her lap and then out at the musical instruments arranged on stands, waiting to be brought to life by their owners. “The songs tell stories.”

Like her poems did.

He nodded. “Yeah. Not like heavy metal, which is just a bunch of screaming.”

“My brother Daniel liked to listen to what he called classic rock when he was running around.” She smiled, thinking back to the time she’d caught him in the barn dancing around like a fool with his ear buds on when he was supposed to be mucking the stalls. “It was okay, but I couldn’t understand the words or the words were the same over and over. No real story.”

“Exactly. Where do you even hear music if you can’t have it at home?”

“In stores and restaurants.” She smiled. “In the houses I clean.”

“Yeah, like my house. Lucky me.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“What about fate?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Me neither. That’s why I know this is right.”

“Jackson—”

“Hey, Jackson, long time no see!” A huge guy with a black Western shirt bursting at the seams over his enormous shoulders and biceps
stopped in front of them, two rows down. He flopped his black cowboy hat up and down, revealing a head of carrot-colored hair. “You’re in town and you didn’t even bother to give me a call, man? What’s up with that, dude?”